To the east coast

Route mapping programs suggest I-4 and Florida's Turnpike to get from Tampa to Boynton Beach. We chose to ignore them and strike out across Central Florida's interior, and that was an excellent decision. Why its called Florida's Turnpike instead of The Florida Turnpike is a troubling question. It doesn't seem right. It seems too possessive, like we are not welcome to use it.

I-4 is night-marish; heavy traffic, exceptionally stupid drivers, people bobbing and weaving like morons, bumper to bumper, with everybody traveling just under the speed of sound.

Route 60 out of Plant City took us to other roads that went just south of Lake Okeechobee. The back roads are two-lane and barely traveled. Some are four-lane and 65 miles an hour. None are limited access. All are pastoral. None have rest stops. No worries, mate, I have a place to rest in the trailer just behind me. I found a spot with a very wide berm and pulled over for a while.

We passed citrus groves, huge citrus groves, and fields of cattle, thousands of cattle. Florida, by the way, has more cattle than Texas.

Okeechobee is big, second only to Lake Michigan, the only fresh water lake larger contained entirely in the U.S. Okichobee is as big as Rhode Island in area. The lake's name comes from the Hitchiti. Oki means water, and chubi means big. People have called it Macaco and Mayaimi. Does Mayaimi sound familiar?

They have signs along the roads that point to the Okichobee trail. I decided to have lunch there. In one little city I pulled the Circus Wagon down a side street and in not too long I noticed that a dead end loomed. Quickly I turned into a street that would take us back to the main road.

Who would have known that I was not in the parking lot of a tiny apartment complex? You have seen them. The lot is small.

Bermie and I got the truck and wagon turned around in no less than a dozen attempts, going slowly and backing into a boat ramp. I was careful not to launch the Circus Wagon. I don't know how long or how well it would float. Should I tell you that apartment dwellers emptied into the parking lot to move their cars. No, I won't.

I called this the Apartment House Maneuver. We had to name it so we could refer to it in the future if I found myself headed into another dead end. “You gonna try the Apartment House Maneuver again,” I would hear.

I should note at this point that one of my former coworkers, I'll call him Joe, has suggested that there be a set of bleachers nearby when I am doing something. I hesitated to supply him fodder.

The run from Bel Grade into Boynton is a long, very long, straight road. Very straight. On both sides of the road are sugar cane field, seemingly as big as Lake Erie. An incredible view. In the distance to the west was thick black smoke near the ground, pluming into a vast cloud of gray. The farmer was burning what was left of an old crop, preparing for the new crop.

All that sugary smoke? I wondered if it would be O.K. for diabetics to breathe it.

That broad expanse of open cane field seemed to draw the wind. We drove into or obliquely into a very stiff wind. After we parked near Boynton, I discovered the spare tire cover at the back of the wagon was gone. Somebody found a good spare tire cover along Route 441 near Bel Grade.

Overnight heavy rain hit the RV roof like BBs. Floridians call it a rain storm quite casually. I call it a deluge. And incredible torrent of water flooded the area. This morning it is sunny and mildly damp. It must all just disappear into the sand, or end up in the Everglades. Did you know the Everglades is a river?